Lost Creek Hollow the raided cache

Something was wrong, the foreign scent he'd been following to one of the Hollow's caches — unknown to Lagon except for the fact that it was not wolven in it's origins — a fact enunciated by the low howl sent out by one of his packmates. It was not a voice he recognized — discounting Mordecai, Harlyn or Flynn as it's owner. Still, Lagon's pace increased to reach where the scent ended and two packmates — both female — were gathered. He sent a low chuff of greeting to them upon his slowed approach, caution keeping the svelte muscles beneath his sleek coat of smoky black taunt, mahogany red gaze touching each of them in turn before it focused upon the mess nearby.  

A shiver rippled along his hackles as they bristled, as he studiously inspected the damage wreaked upon their cache. The words of the lighter colored female did not fall upon deaf ears, for they had slicked back, to take in the words she exchanged, speaking a confirmation of the conclusion he'd came to himself: that it wasn't the work of a wolf ...or wolves. “Winter is desperation,” He added his voice, offering his own conclusion. That while it might have been a challenge, it could have also been an act of desperation. Either way, they would have to work to rebuild the cache they'd lost. “So the question is what do we do? We could try to hunt down the culprit and get back what it took but either way we'll probably have to hunt anew to make up the difference.” But it wasn't his call to make: one of their leaders would need to make that decision, more or less he was pondering out loud.